


sorry (not sorry)

by hoppnhorn



Series: rivals (make the best lovers) [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Bisexual Steve Harrington, Blow Jobs, Gay Billy Hargrove, M/M, Modern AU, motogp au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 23:36:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15130211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoppnhorn/pseuds/hoppnhorn
Summary: Billy fucks up Steve's chances during free practice.





	sorry (not sorry)

“PRICK.”

Billy would know that voice anywhere. It’s a wonderful mix of furious and just plain  _whiny_. And there is only one man in the whole of motoGP who can make his voice sound so  _grating._

“Well howdy to you too, Harrin—” He tries to go for casual, running his fingers through his sweaty curls. He’s got a nasty case of helmet hair and he has a reputation for being pretty damn gorgeous at all times.

The cameras never catch him looking out of sorts. But Harrington definitely has, storming into his garage unannounced.

“You PRICK.” Billy’s expecting the insult. He’s not expecting Steve to  _shove_  him and send him reeling backwards into a mechanic’s workbench. The things are  _expensive_.

“Jesus, it was just a  _practice_. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” Billy hisses, straightening for a fight. A  _fair_  fight, this time. One where he’s ready for the confrontation, not sneering like an idiot waiting for a punch.

Steve is  _seething_  when he charges again.

He’s lucky the news crews are preoccupied with a new lap record on the track. No one likes covering crashes unless someone is carted off on a stretcher.

They’d both walked away.

 _Darn_.

“Fuck you. That was my second bike.” Steve grabs a hold of Billy’s leathers and they’re tangled up against the workbench a second time. Billy cuts to the chase, grabs a handful of that long, sweaty brown hair and  _pulls_.

“Wanna play rough, baby?” He can’t help it. He’s wanted to get his hands on Steve Harrington and all his  _gorgeous_  glory since fucking Qatar. Billy gives into impulse and laves his tongue over the gloriously shiny length of Steve’s neck. He tastes like salt.

“What the  _fu_ —” Harrington thrashes but Billy is too busy hauling him back into his trailer. The garage is open; any old  _idiot_  with a smartphone could barge in and see them practically  _strangling_  each other out in the open.

“I said it was an accident.” Billy hisses. His fingernails hurt with the amount of  _force_  it takes to pull Steve by his leathers. But he manages it, knuckles white, until they’re safely out of sight. “I even said I was  _sorry_.” He adds.

“To the fucking  _cameras_.” Steve snaps, finally breaking free; though  _really_  Billy lets him go. “I was on a flying lap, you fucking  _asshole_  and you’d just gotten out. You  _dick_.”

He’s actually pretty pissed.

So Billy lets him yell. Lets him pace back and forth and throw insults at him until he’s left panting and just  _angry_.

But in silence.

Finally.

“Can I say something now?” Billy asks. Because he can’t just say  _sorry_  like a normal person. He’s a piece of shit, egotistical bastard.

“Fuck you.” Steve grouses. But he doesn’t  _leave_. Which is something.

“I am sorry.” He says slowly. Enunciates every word. “I didn’t see you—”

“I’m wearing  _fucking orange_.” Steve screams, pointing to the big  _Honda_  logo on his orange leathers. Which. Okay,  _fair_.

“Jesus, Harrington.” Billy moans. “I can only say  _I’m sorry._ ”

“That’s not good enough!” Steve yells.

And  _dammit_ , he’s sexy. Hair wet and tossed in every direction. Face flushed and skin  _gleaming_. Billy wants to  _devour_ him.

Suddenly, that doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

“Okay fine.” He says carefully. “I’ll make it up to you.” Steve stares, pants for a moment, brow knit in an expression of  _what the fuck_.

“You gonna stay up until tomorrow morning fixing my bike with the rest of my team?” He snaps. A bolt of guilt hits Billy in the bottom of his gut. No, he can’t do that. They’re not even  _allowed_  to be in each other’s trailers.

So what they’re doing is already pretty close to  _illegal_.

Like race disqualification  _illegal_.

“I can’t do that.” Billy murmurs, his mouth going a little dry as he takes a step closer. “I’m a shit mechanic.”

Steve glares at him, crosses his arms.

“What then?”

Billy doesn’t exactly know how to go about propositioning a  _straight_  guy, but he wants Harrington in the worst way.  _Has_  wanted him, since they’d both graduated from Moto2 to MotoGP a few years back.

It’s felt like an endless  _tease_  for Billy. Watching Harrington smile and wave for his adoring fans. The all-American boy with a heart of gold.

Of course, he’d been cast as the cocky Californian with a boner for danger. Which, honestly, isn’t too far off the mark.

But he doesn’t  _actually_  hate Steve Harrington, even though all the blogs and press outlets  _claim_  the two Americans can’t stand each other. Can’t stand to even be in the same room during a press conference without one of them sneaking in a passive-aggressive insult.

Okay, so maybe  _he’s_  the one taking cheap shots at Steve all the time. He can’t help it. The golden boy is just too easy a target.

And he wants him so  _goddamn_  bad, it’s dumb.

One problem: Steve is straight.  _Unbearably_  so, with his high school sweetheart and cute little love story. But Billy sees the way Nancy doesn’t really  _smile_  anymore.

He’s also seen her blowing one of the camera dudes from beIN sports so he thinks Harrington really hasn’t been  _laid_  in a while.

So he takes a little leap.

And steps into the guy’s space.

“What the—” Harrington moves like he’s going to punch Billy in the  _fucking_   _face_  until Billy holds up his hands, palms spread.

“Relax, tough guy.” He breathes, flashes one of his best smiles. “I’m  _apologizing_ remember?”

Steve takes a couple of hard exhales through his nose, blinking rapidly at Billy until he lowers his hands.

Reaching for the zipper at Steve’s throat, Billy is only shaking a little. He doesn’t look Steve in the eye because he knows he’ll give away how  _much_  he wants to have this. To have  _him_.

“Hargrove.” Steve’s voice is hesitant, questioning, but in a breathless sort of way. “What are you doing?”

“I thought I told you.” Billy murmurs, opening the orange Honda uniform down Steve’s chest, over his torso. “Apologizing.” There are big, angry slashes in the leather, dirt and cement embedded in the material from where Steve had  _slid_  across the asphalt.

After being  _thrown_  off his motorcycle.

All because Billy hadn’t turned his head and checked over his shoulder. Hadn’t made sure he was alone when he went for the apex.

His heart had nearly stopped when he’d seen the flash of orange in his peripherals.

“I’m sorry.” He says softly, unthreading the zipper down to Steve’s waist where it ends. Underneath the uniform, most riders wear undershirts.

Except Billy, of course.

He has that  _reputation_  to keep after all.

Steve is wearing some sort of black under armor. The wicking kind, if Billy’s not mistaken. It makes his chest look sleek, tightly covered in thin fabric.

Billy could lick his nipples through the stuff and probably  _taste_  him.

“I didn’t see you.” He continues, both hands gently easing the leathers down Steve’s hips, just enough that his grey boxer briefs are revealed.

Nike, of course.

The guy is a walking endorsement deal.

“Hargrove.” Steve says again, but the fight is gone from his voice. Billy doesn’t dare meet his gaze.  _Can’t_.

Slowly, he kneels.

“I’m sorry.” He repeats. With a slow, brush of his hands, he strokes across Steve’s waist. Over his hips, down his thighs. He tests. Waits.

When Steve hasn’t  _bashed his face in_ , Billy takes his chances and leans forward. Presses his nose into the warm, soft material at Steve’s groin and  _breathes_.

“ _Billy_.”

He glances up at that, shock pulling his attention more than anything. He’s never heard his  _first_  name on Steve’s lips. Let alone with that kind of  _hunger_.

Steve is staring down at him, mouth open and eyes wide and glazed over.

If this weren’t so goddamn  _important_ , Billy would be laughing at him.

Nancy  _really_  hasn’t been keeping her man happy.

“Let me make it up to you.” He says gently, using the fingertips of one hand to stroke at Steve through his underwear. His cock isn’t hard but it isn’t soft either.

He’s also fucking  _hung._

“Okay.” Steve finally whispers, hands twitching at his sides as Billy practically quivers with delight.

Nancy Wheeler is going to have a hard time keeping her man once Billy gets his  _mouth_ on him.

He doesn’t go immediately for the prize. He licks at Steve through his briefs, teases him with kisses to his hip. He pushes up the shirt on his waist and bites at his skin, tongues at the trail of hair leading down down  _down_.

Billy patiently waits until he can see Steve straining at the front of his boxers, his scent musky and so  _delicious._

He doesn’t make  _Steve_  wait though. He makes good on his apology. He reaches into Steve’s underwear and pulls his cock out, runs his hand over every silky inch.

“ _Fuck_.”

The golden boy sounds like a porn star, shoulder blades against the wall with a fist in his own hair, watching with a blush on his face.

It’s an image Billy commits to memory. Like a snapshot in his mind. Framed. Mounted over a mantel.

“Only if you ask nice.” He teases with a wink.

Whatever retort on Steve’s lips dies the instant Billy swallows him down, his words replaced with a gasp of shock and a moan of  _bliss_. His cock kicks in Billy’s throat and he moans on it, swallows and sucks and bobs his head hard. The sounds of sloppy sex fill his ears. Slurps and groans and little breathy pants.

It’s almost as good as the view.

As good as Steve’s hands finding their way to Billy’s face.

As good as those soft hands holding his head.

It takes a little while for things to find a rhythm. It’s not every day that he has a dick so  _big_  in his mouth and he’s just a  _smidge_  rusty. But Steve is  _oh so_ patient. He doesn’t thrust like some assholes would. He doesn’t push on his head and force his cock  _in_  until Billy chokes.

He just strokes his face and moans.

And it’s perfect. It’s everything Billy’s ever dreamed. Better, even.

Right before he comes, Steve warns him. He gasps and taps Billy’s cheek, whispers that he’s close. It’s  _cute_ , really.

Like Billy isn’t in it to win it.

Besides, the way Steve trembles when he realizes Billy isn’t  _stopping_  makes it just that much better. He orgasms with his whole body: thighs tense, fingers curled tight, neck flexed.

It’s a glorious thing to behold.

And another snapshot for Billy’s imaginary mantle.

When the high fades and Steve is actually  _breathing_ , Billy lets him go. He eases off his head, kisses his hip as he catches his own breath before murmuring, “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.” He nuzzles against Steve’s tummy as he strokes his softening cock. Base to tip, slow and firm.

“Careful.” Steve chuckles, swallows hard. “You sound like you almost care.”

Billy might not  _say_  it, but he hopes his smile conveys something along those lines.

After all, he can’t really come out and say he  _likes_  his opponent, now can he?

He has a reputation to keep.  

**Author's Note:**

> find me [@hoppnhorn](http://hoppnhorn.tumblr.com)


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